Ina D. Coolbrith: Verses about Happiness

Upon the patient earth
A thousand tempests beat,
To call to life the flowers
That make her glad and sweet.
So, o’er the human heart
The countless griefs that roll
But wake immortal joy
To bloom within the soul.

Be happy, happy, little maid,
Under the rose in blossom!
Whitely flutter its petals down
Over the whiter bosom.

Beauty and sunshine thine today
With never thought of sorrow...
As glad a day, as fair a sky,
Be thine upon the morrow!

I know a shadowed room
Whereto none enters;
I know a heart wherein
No joy-light centers.
Room and heart alike are cold,
Old, cold and old.

Once light was tenant there,
Gladness was a part;
Once a young rose in bloom
With warmth, the heart.
But that was long, aye! Long ago!
So long ago!

Sunshine and melody follow the rain-
Patter the rain-drops merrily!
Spring joy follows the winter pain,
Then, ho! For earth’s green holiday.

Flutter the rovers from over the sea-
Greet them, robin, right heartily!
Nest and twitter in field and tree,
And O! for loves sweet hoiday.

Wait, and the winds of the winter cease:
Up, little heart, beat hopefully!
After the warfare cometh peace-
And O! for a life’s glad holiday.

Newly wedded, and happy quite,
Careless alike of wind and weather,
Two wee birds, from a merry flight,
Swing in the tree-top, sing together:
Love to them, in the wintry hour,
Summer and sunshine, bud and flower!

So, beloved, when skies are sad,
Love can render their somber golden;
A thought of thee, and the day is glad
As a rose in the dewy dawn unfolden;
And away, away, on passionate wings,
My heart like a bird at thy window sings!

One sang all day, more merry than the lark
That mounts the morning skies:
One silent sat, and lifted patient eyes.

One heart kept happy time, from dawn to dark,
With all glad things that be:
One, listless, throbbed alone to memory.

To one all blessed knowledge was revealed,
And love made clear the way:
One thirsted, asked, and was denied always.

To one a glad, brief day, that slumber sealed
And kept inviolate:
To one, long years, that only knew to wait.

To-Morrow is too far away!
A bed of spice the garden is,
Nor bud nor blossom that we miss;
The roses tremble on the stem,
The violets and anemones:
Why should we wait to gather them?
Their bloom and balm are ours to-day,
To-morrow-who can say?

To-morrow is to far away.
Why should we slight the joy complete,
The flower open at our feet?
For us to-day the robin sings,
His curved flight the swallow wings,
For us the happy moments stay.
Stay yet, nor leave us all too fleet!
For life is sweet, and youth is sweet,
And love-ah, love is sweet to-day,
To-morrow- who can say?

There’s Pan!
See-through the branches yonder!
Where has he been, I wonder,
The long, long span?
Now, listen: you will hear,
The pipes-the pipes o’ Pan

Why, only yesterday
I saw a Graybeard, there;
A Graybeard, bent and old,
Under the boughs a-cold
And bleak and bare.
Now, what does that mad boy hold,
And wisely scan?
Then, lifting high in the air,
With a leap and a glad hurray,
And a laugh like the song of May,
Toss-far away?
Why ‘tis the Graybeard’s mask!
‘What does it mean? ’ you ask.

Why-Pan!
Just Pan!
Pan, since the world began:
Joy supernal, -
Youth eternal-
PAN!

White-limbed he lieth, dead youth, so strong, so fair, -
And O, for slumber that woke to happy days!
And O, the moonlights, the golden dreams that were,
And O, the glory of life’s long pleasant ways!

Fair were the faces his eyes have looked upon,
But these are haggared, and wan, and very sad.
Sweet the love-laughters, and red the lips he won, -
But here is silence of lips no longer glad.

So, part the branches, where light falls long between,
And plait the grasses about his feet and head;
Here his loved summer shall wear her softest green,
And winds just ruffle the fringes of his bed.

His were the roses washed sweeter in the dew,
And his the rapture life knoweth not again;
But ours the tempest, the skies no longer blue,
For tender sunlight, and tender, falling rain.

(Eccl. VII,3) To ‘Uncle George Bromley

I hold not that sorrow than laughter
Is better for man;
The storm-clouds that darken the heavens
Than rainbows that span.
Ah! rather the skies in there shinning
Than dreary with rain, -
And the heart that is lightsome in gladness
Than heavy with pain.

There are thorns in the smoothest of pathways
Enough and to spare;
No wheat-field so carefully tended
That knows not the tare;
But the harvester gathers the harvest
In the gold of its sheaves,
And the briar is forgot of the branches
In the laugh of its leaves.

The voice in its merriment ringing
The laughter-bells clear!
May their melody linger about him,
And the seed he has sown
Of joy in the heart-fields of others
Find bloom in his own.

O Ye laggard comers
Of the rosy summers!
Dear, delicious vagrants,
Hives of hoarded fragrance,
Through the golden
Days of balm and bloom, to open wide,
Wondering, dewy eyes at Christmas-tide!

Now that day grown chill is
Come the calla-lilies,
Lifting, row on row,
Hoods of scented snow-
Fit for holiest altar,
Psalm and psalter:
Vestal-nuns your courtly robes beside,
Truants of sunshine, waifs of summer-tide!

Welcome, joy’s sweet keepers!
Balmy little sleepers
Through the night and noon
Of your vanished June.
Glad the sky that thrills you,
Bird that trills you!
Fairer than to bridegroom comes the bride,
O sacred roses of the Christmas-tide!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy that I am!
(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing) ,
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm!
O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the spring.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies serene and blue,
That shut the radiant (velvet) pastures in; that fold the mountain's crest!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew?
The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?
Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!
Ah! he who leads (lives) the noblest life finds life the noblest gain,
The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!
Dear heart, I hear across the field my mateling pipe and call.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss!
For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!

Youth that is sweetest lies chill, lies still in death:
Close and clear eyelids upon the tender eyes;
And hush the pleadings on murmur answereth,
And still the kisses that wake no warm replies.

White-limbed he lieth, dead youth-so strong, so fair:
And O, for the slumber that woke to happy days!
And O, the moonlights-O, golden dreams that were!
And O, the glory of live’s long, pleasant ways!

Fair were the faces his eyes have looked upon;
But these are haggard, and wan, and very sad, \.
Sweet the love-laughters, and red lips he won;
But here is silence of lips no longer glad.

So, part the branches, where light falls long between,
And plait the grasses about his feet and head;
Here his loved summer shall wear her softest green,
And winds just ruffle the fringes of his bed.

His were the roses washed sweeter in the dew,
And his the rapture life knoweth not again;
But ours the tempest, the skies no longer blue,
For tender sunlight, and tender, falling rain.

Through the dreary winter,
Ice-locked, white and chill!
All its laughter sleeping,
All its music still;
Not a flower to love it
From the bank above it;
Not a bird to trill,
In its ripples laving
Yellow wing and bill;
No green, shadowy silence,
Where one may go at will,
And dream and dream one’s fill.

Without voice or color,
In a barren land:
Dripping skies bent over-
Dripping trees that stand,
Forlorn, on either hand.

But a little sunshine-
How its voice will wake!
Over sand and pebble
Glad for summer’s sake!
Fairy boats shall ride it,
Lovers walk beside it,
Bird colonies,
From over seas,
Build in bough and brake;
Flowers and flow’ring sedges
Laugh along its edges-
Glad for summer’s sake!

Just a little sunshine!
And the clouds will part;
All its fettered beauty
Into life will start.
Be glad, thou shinning rover,
With bird, and bee, and clover!
Sing summer through and over,
Ah, happy that thou art! ...
Just a little sunshine-
O my heart, my heart!

I will be glad to-day: the sun
Smiles all adown the land;
The lilies lean along the way;
Serene on either hand,
Full-blown, the roses- red and white-
In perfect beauty stand.

The mourning-dove within the woods
Forgets, nor longer grieves;
A light wind lifts the bladed corn,
And ripples the ripe sheaves;
High overhead some happy bird
Sings softly in the leaves.

The butterflies flit by, and bees;
A peach falls to the ground;
The tinkle of a bell is heard
From some far pasture-mound;
The crickets in the warm, green grass
Chirp with a softened sound.

The sky looks down upon the sea,
Blue, with not anywhere
The shadow of a passing cloud;
The sea looks up as fair-
So bright a picture on its breast
As if it smiled to wear.

A day too glad for laughter-nay,
Too glad for happy tears!
The fair earth seems as in a dream
Of immemorial years:
Perhaps of that far morn when she
Sang with her sister spheres.

It may be that she holds to-day
Some sacred Sabbath feast.
It may be that some patient soul
Has entered to God’s rest-
For whose dear sake He smiles on us,
And all the day is blest.

“The song were sweeter and better
If only the thought were glad.”
Be hidden the chafe of the fetter,
The scars of the wounds you have had;
Be silent of strife and endeavor,
But shout of the victory won!
You may sit in the shadow forever,
If only you’ll sing of the sun.

There are hearts, you must know, over tender
With the wine of the joy-cup of years;
One might dim for a moment the splendor
Of eyes unaccustomed to tears:
So sing, if you must, with the gladness
That brimmed the lost heart of your youth,
Lest you breath, in the song and its sadness,
The secret of life at its truth.

O, violets, born of the valley,
You are sweet in the sun and the dew;
But your sisters, in yonder dim alley,
Are sweeter-and paler-than you!
O, birds, you are blith in the meadow,
But your mates of the forest I love;
And sweeter their songs in the shadow,
Though sadder the singing thereof!

To the weary in life’s wildernesses
The soul of the singer belongs.
Small need, in your green, sunny places,
Glad dwellers, have you of my songs.
For you the blith birds of the meadow
Trill silverly sweet, every one;
But I can not sit in the shadow
Forever, and sing of the sun.

Love and I, one summer day,
Took a walk together:
Oh, how beautiful the way
Through the blooming heather!
Far-off bells rang matin-chimes,
Birds sang, silver-voicing;
And our happy hearts beat time
To the earth’s rejoicing.
Well-a-day! ah well-a-day!
Then pale Grief had missed me,
And Mirth and I kept company,
Ere Cupid kissed me.

Love ran idly where he would,
Child-like, all unheeding;
I as carelessly pursued
The pathway he was leading,
Till upon the shadowed side
Of a cool, swift river,
Where the sunbeams smote the tide
Goldenly a-quiver:
Well-a-day! Ah well-a-day!
“Love, ” I cried, “come, rest thee.”
Ah, but Heart and I were gay,
Ere Cupid kissed me!

Shadows of the summer-cloud
Fell on near and far land,
Fragrantly the branches bowed
Every leafy garland;
While, with shining head at rest,
Next my heart reclining,
Love’s white arms, with soft caress,
Round my neck were twining;
Till—ah, well! Ah, well-a-day!
Love, who can resist thee? —
On the river-banks that day,
Cupid kissed me.

Woe is me! In cheerless plight,
By the cold sad river,
Seek I Love, who, taken flight,
Comes no more forever—
Love, from whom more pain than bliss
Every heart obtaineth;
For the joy soon vanishes,
While the pang remaineth.
Well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
Would, Love, I had missed thee!
Peace and I are twain for aye,
Since Cupid kissed me!

Aye, but my feet are light upon the hills!
Light as the leaping deer, light as the wind,
Light as the soaring bird-for winged with joy!
And my heart sings (hearken the voice of it!)
With all my forests in the song-the streams-
And the great Sea that rims my golden shores.
Nay, from the deeps of far Creation’s morn
The slumbering echoes that are never mute-
The primal throes of all the things that are-
God busy with His world in fashioning;
Through the long aeon days of change on change,
God busy with His world in fashioning still.

Aye, am I glad! For is not this fair land-
Fairest of all lands, wreathed and crowned to-day
As never in the ages gone before?
Past now the days of desert solitudes,
The summits lifted lonely to the stars,
First that but knew the padded moccasin,
And then the Hero-Saint who bore the Cross
To it, with Him, the Life, the Nazarene!
And then the livid lure and dross of gold;
Then-(from a weed so ill a bloom so fair!)
Vast fields of fruit and harvest; thronging homes;
Science with searching gaze demanding truth-
And Art to add new perfectness to Art-
And greater, sweeter, dearer far then all,
Across the mighty vastness of sea
The living voice of human Brotherhood,
And peal of the great bell of London town,
That rang from sacred walls to speak to mankind,
One heart, one home, one people and one God!

O, land of mine-my land that is so loved-
‘Lift up thine eyes unto the hills’-nay, lift
Thine eyes unto the stars-make thou thy goal
As fair and great as thou art sweet and fair;
Make all of ill to die from out thy bounds
As dies the ill weed from the tended soil,
And thy fair bosom bloom as blooms the rose.
Peace brood with thee- a Dove with folded wings-
And Love thy Law as it was Christ’s one Law-
Wherewith no thing of wrong can ever dwell.
So shalt thou be, white as thy Shasta’s snows,
In thy divinest grace and purity
Evangel of the nations, speaking Man
God busy with His world of fashioning still.

Most lives lie more in the shadow, I think, than in the sun,
And the shadow from some is lifted only when life is done;
And so, though I wear mourning, I am glad at heart to know,
She rests in her still white slumber, under the Christmas snow.

She was to have married Philip. He sailed withhis ship in June.
How long they walked by the sea that night, under the waning moon!
“A year and a day of parting, and a lifetime, sweet, with you.”
Ah me, but we dream life bravely, if only our dreams came true!

She spoke of him very little: ‘twas never her way to talk;
But the restless nights, the restless days, the long, long tireless walk,
Forever beside the ocean. I fancied, almost, there grew
A picture of ocean within her eyes. O tend’rest eyes I knew!

Forever the ocean! Until her heart seemed even to time its beat
With the pulse and the throb of the waters that drifted to her feet;
She smiled when the sea was smiling, and her face in the tempest roar
Grew white as the fury of breakers, that beat on the rocky shore.

Again and again in dead of night, I wakened to find-ah me! -
The still, white form at the window that looked on the lonely sea.
Forever and ever the ocean! And I thought, with yearning pain,
“If only the year were over, and Philip were back again! ”

June passed into December. We were merry at Christmas-tide.
Berry and oak and holly, and folk from the country-side;
Music and feast and frolic, laughter and life and light-
I never missed poor Maggie, till far into the night.

Why should I think of the saying, somewhere that I had read:
“Pray for the one beloved, if he be living or dead,
In the hush of the Christmas midnight he will appear to thee.”
O Maggie, sister Maggie, down by the moaning sea! -

Still as a ghost in the moonlight; white as the drifted snow;
Cold as the pitiless waters, surging to and fro.
Why are your arms extended-what do your eyes behold?
O Maggie, sister Maggie, never your lips have told!

I do not like to speak it. You surely will understand.
She was always gentle and harmless; -nay, when the days are bland’
Quite happy, I think; but in winter, when winds and waves were high,
She would shudder at times, and utter a pitiful, moaning cry.

No flower in all the land-
No leaf upon the tree,
Blossom, or bud, or fruit,
But an icy fringe instead;
And the birds are flown, or dead,
And the world is mute.
The white, cold moonbeams shiver
On the dark face of the river,
While still and slow the waters flow
Out to the open sea;
The moveless pine-trees stand,
Black fortressed on the hill;
And white, and cold, and still,
Wherever the eye may go,
The ghostly snow:
The vast, unbroken silence of snow.

I l; ook out upon the night,
And the darkly flowing river,
And the near stars, with no quiver
In their calm and steady light,
And listen for the voice of the great sea,
And the silence answers me.
O Sea of the West, that comes
With a sound as of rolling drums,
With a muffled beat
As of marching feet,
Up the long lifts of sand,
The golden drifts of sand,
On the long, long shining strand.
An opal, rimmed with blue,
An emerald, shinning through
The pearl’s and ruby’s dyes,
And crests that catch the blaze
Of the diamond’s rays,
Under thy perfect skies!

O Land of the West, I know
How the field flowers bud and blow,
And the grass springs and the grain,
To the first soft touch and summons of the rain.
O, the music of the rain!
O, the music of the streams!
Dream music, heard in dreams,
As I listen through the night,
While the snow falls, still and white.
I hear the branches sway
In the breeze’s play,
And the forests’ solemn hymns:
Almost I hear the stir
Of the sap in their mighty limbs
Like blood in living veins!
The rose is in the lanes,
And the insects buzz and whir;
And where the purple fills
The spaces of the hills,
In one swift month the poppy will lift up
Its golden cup.
And O, and O, in the sunshine and the rain,
Rings out that perfect strain, -
The earth’s divinest song!
My bird with the plain, brown breast,
My lark of the golden west,
Up, up, thy joy notes soar,
And sorrow is no more,
And pain has passed away
In the rapture of thy lay!
Up, up, the glad notes throng,
And the soul is borne along
On the pinions of thy song,
Up from the meadow’s sod,
Up from the world’s unrest,
To peace, to heaven, to God!

And I listen through the silence of the night,
While the snow falls, still and white.